'Well, they might. But put this in perspective. The president's a busy guy. He's trying to win an election. He doesn't need constant contact with the investigator on the case. If he did want regular updates, he'd be more likely to get them from the FBI director. We're pretty big on the chain of command over there. And it's not like this has been a textbook investigation, I seem to remember reading a few stories on the front page of the Boston Record that indicated we were fucking this thing up nine ways from hell.'
There's that profanity thing again that turns me on. We both fell quiet, thinking about what Stevens just said. By now, the entrees were done and our waiter had delivered two orders of chocolate dacquoise with cappuccino sauce, and two glasses of port, which he pronounced to be a twelve-year-old Cockburn. Very nice.
I said to Stevens, 'Okay, I concede the point. It is unusual those two would be talking as much as you say they are.'
She took a bite of the dacquoise and declared she was on her way to heaven. She looked rail thin, yet packed down food like there would be bread lines come morning. She'd make a wonderfully expressive bedmate, I thought, if her partner could live up to the standard set by Bob Kinkead.
She said, 'Not to force the issue, but let's put work aside for a while and see if we can chat like two regular human beings.'
Truth be known, I still wasn't 100 percent confident that this wasn't some scheme, that Drinker and my new friend Sam weren't conspiring to set me up, playing off each other to learn the existence and the identity of my anonymous informant. I was either getting a remarkable window into the inner workings of a major FBI investigation, or rather an FBI civil war, or I was being played for a farm animal again.
'That sounds good, but just one more thing,' I said. 'Does Drinker ever bring up this point about the phone call in the hospital room anymore?'
'No, though I have to admit, I'm still curious.'
Interesting answer. I decided to take a modest risk. 'The name Black mean anything to you in this investigation?'
She looked at me blankly. Either it meant nothing, or she was one terrific actress. She shook her head thoughtfully and said, 'Not a thing. Should it?'
My question was designed to accomplish two goals: first, see if, in fact, I did get any response, and second, to gauge in the future whether she had gone and passed this information to Drinker.
I said, 'Probably not. Just scratching at dirt.'
'No, really. What do you have?'
'Really, nothing solid,' I said.
We both sat in silence for a while, sipping our port, collecting our thoughts. She began making small talk, about her first Thanksgiving since her divorce, her driving desire for a Caribbean vacation, her raves about my four-legged blond friend Baker. It became all very casual, breezy, floating on the surface, like a water lily, making no waves, just how I usually like it. Still, here I was, looking for meaning within, and this conversation exposed none of it. We tossed down another glass of port before I paid the bill with my trusty Record'-issued Visa card. I briefly thought of Martin checking the bill, asking me if the clams were fried in liquid gold. We made our way down the stairs.
For the rest of time, I'll always remember precisely where I was when the events of the next few minutes began to unfold all around me.
Actually, it's not as glamorous as it sounds. I was standing right in front of the coat check. I had just found my stub and handed it to the woman when Samantha, who was behind me, suddenly wrapped her arms around my waist and pressed her mouth against my ear.
My first thought was that the second glass of port had kicked in, inspiring an understandable fit of passion, such that she couldn't keep her hands and lips off me. Then I heard her whisper something, and my second thought was to tell her, 'Huh? I can't hear you.' Good social graces kept that thought in check as I replayed her words in my mind:
'Eric-you're my boyfriend.'
An agile mind is an amazing thing. Take, for example, mine. I couldn't figure out why she was suddenly calling me Eric, and when exactly I had become her boyfriend-not that I was complaining just yet. I was confused. Then, amid my mental calisthenics, it struck me, within seconds, that her ex-husband, Eric, was probably in the restaurant, and she wanted to do a little role-playing. Well, so much for her fit of passion, but I'd take whatever I could get.
'Eric,' she called out. 'How are you?' She kept one arm wrapped tightly around me, such that when the nice coat check woman delivered our coats, I had to maneuver my arms around Samantha to accept them.
My back was still to all the action, but I heard a somewhat nasally voice say, 'Hey there, Sam. God, this is so great to see you.'
I turned around to see a pretty-looking man with blow-dried hair and a dapper red pocket square in a navy blue suit come walking over, his white teeth blazing all over the room. He was tan in November, which explains more than I can describe. He looked to be the type of guy who always got along better with women than men.
'Eric, this is Jack. Jack Flynn.' As she said this, she rubbed the back of her hand affectionately against the side of my arm. I thought she was overdoing the lovey-dovey act a bit but didn't think it was my place to say anything. I held out my hand cheerily to shake Eric's, and he gave me an oddly limp-wristed shake. I held in check my desire to call him a pussy.
'Very nice to meet you,' I said.
'Same,' he said, somewhat dismissively, his eyes drifting back to those of his former wife. I'm not precisely sure why, but I had the urge to punch him in the mouth. Worry not: good manners prevailed once again.
Meanwhile, Samantha was now running her hand up and down my back as we all stood there. Eric turned away for a moment and said, 'Hey, Julia, Julia sweetie. Look who's here. Come on over and say hello to Sam.'
Up walked an extraordinarily attractive blonde in a skirt so short I wasn't sure if I had accidentally been transported into some sort of adult entertainment lounge.
Eric again: 'Sam, do you remember Julia? Julia, this is Sam. You guys met at Nordstrom's that day.'
As I stood there, Mr. Manners didn't bother introducing me, and I wasn't sure if it was by intention or stupidity. Finally I stuck my hand out and said, 'Julia, I'm Jack Flynn. Nice to meet you.' Then I took my hand and softly ran it down Samantha's cheek, the very feel of her skin making my head go light.
Samantha took my hand in hers and kissed it softly. Here I was, thinking I was doing good. I was certainly feeling good. Samantha pulled my hand down to her side, squeezing it with what I first thought was sincere affection. Then I felt her sharp nails dig into my skin, and I almost yelped and jumped in pain. Luckily, I have the discipline of a Marine, and I maintained my smile.
'Coming or going?' I said to Eric.
He just kind of looked at me as if he had forgotten I was there. Maybe the complexity of the question caught him off guard. Julia said, 'Just coming. We're going to get a bite to eat at the bar.' She seemed nice enough, if not a little daffy, which is maybe what I mean by nice enough.
Samantha absently leaned into me, her body feeling warm and wonderful against mine, even if I was now gin-clear on what a charade this was.
She said to Eric, 'We don't want to hold you up. We just had a great dinner upstairs and are hurrying out. I'll see you around.' She laughed and said, 'Seems like we're doing more and more of that.'
Proper, mature farewells were made, though I'm not sure if Eric ever addressed one to me. Julia did, though, andwitha smile, creating a kind of bond as the two appendages in this little scene. Outside, on the sidewalk, I said to Samantha, 'You almost scratched the skin off my hand.'
She laughed in a distracted way and said, 'You seemed to be taking advantage in my moment of need.' She wasn't quite as flustered as I thought she might have been. Actually, she seemed to be relieved that things had gone this well, especially after that Nordstrom's debacle she had described.
I said, 'Sorry about that.' I left the intention of my apology vague, whether it was for her running into her former husband, or for my somewhat coarse attempt at physical engagement.
'Apology declined.' She said this as she stood facing me, unusually close. The night was cold, the street
